


fine

by Aimryax



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Catholic!Soap, Coping Mechanisms, During Canon, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Conflict, Trans!Soap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21963307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimryax/pseuds/Aimryax
Summary: Everything is gonna be fine.//fine - Mike Shinoda.
Kudos: 10





	fine

**Author's Note:**

> Bastards be like projects onto their own characters. I’m bastards.
> 
> Had the song on repeat and it fit Soap too well, as well as trying new things in writing.
> 
> Many MASSIVE thanks to @CelestialFox for helping me with Catholic!Soap and the regular still MASSIVE thanks for beta/proofread by @llanxeotis.

Sound of papers sliding with the familiar sound in a small journal, metallic sound of a lighter's flicking, the slight burn of smoke entering his lungs.

Constant cycle, almost regular. It gave him ease; from the world’s preference for oblivion that had left the lone survivor in distraught.

Bright lights had bothered his eyes in the hospital, becoming a hindrance when it caused headaches. Finding a much better company in places where lights weren’t so glaring, where small lanterns glowing with symbol of faith—as much as they glowed sadly with the fact they did not give what they should have given to him—had made talking to the graves a little less lonely.

Promises of cold drinks, laughter to calm down the extremely close call, familiarity of close comrades with the used-to-be _FNG_ among them, wondering if it meant him as well.

He recovered. They all do. The body was not an easy thing to break when it's trained to be hardened, it’s what they all do, it’s what they all are refined for, to withstand all possibilities of breakage.

Cigars tasted so sweet on the lips everytime, the first smell of it in the helicopter was not false; leaving an imprint on the said page when his mind had wandered to the old man with the mourning he thought was so real.

How did it feel; unresponsive in the bright red streaks on the ground, rib breaking pounds on the chest with no avail, a dead body of an honourable soldier laid right next a madman to be falsely equalised, the life that was taken in the place of his _own_ —

He recovered, they all do when they live.

Not a talker to strangers, won’t start now, what he saw other than healing was an automatic obstacle. He moved at the sign and never stopped since, always on the run as soon as the body deemed to be acceptable, even on the most minimum of scales.

Dissembling and cleaning the pistol helped to coherent his thoughts, but not silencing them. Running had stopped his mind when it intervened with the recovery, the pain he felt in his chest—let it be from the injections, bandages, binder—had never, and _never_ will amount to anything around him.

It had ceased the unnecessary distractions, whenever the letters of _RC_ engraved on his identity of a collar rang out; sounds of his boots connecting the ground loudly was above the unanswered questions of accusations towards whom he trusted.

Barbered wires replaced the itching on knees through the courses, numbing any sensation for all the times he kneeled to no purpose. Kneeled so he could see the tears of a family that knew nothing cry in vain, kneeled for an unmerciful god.

He recovered, they must.

Between Credenhill and others, something blended in that stayed with him, taking his exact steps everywhere, wanting to get a hold.

Horse racing failed to keep that tear in his heart sealed, blissfully for once, something worked, cigars worked. It helped him through the phases of numbness, felt better than staring at a wall uselessly at a report feeling a bit too close to home, a dried throat wanting to cry but can’t.

The mind was not an easy thing to heal like a bleeding wound, the scars that faded on his body did not equate.

First weeks, woken up by a blood curling scream of his own voice that stung his throat and chest with sweat filling up his eyes. First months, memory still sharpened in all his senses even when sight was weakened.

First years, he got used to it.

Not in the way where he dwelled the hollowness in him with the never ending drowning sea of alcoholism nor self pity, he was anything but inefficient. Slowly knowing when, why and how with his scrabbled mind; gently walking through the familiarity that took place by time.

Slow walks through empty streets and distant noises of loud cheering and heavy stomps, smoke exhaled with cold air accompanied in the breath; ghostly fingers that always reached for his throat didn’t tighten like when he ran. They lingered, better than encircling from believing in nothingness.

Without the proper vision of providence when his belief deemed false, he felt so _lost_.

He dealt with it the same as he dealt with anything that stuttered him; ash-like texture in his mouth, scribbling on worn out paper, scratches of age on cold metal with fingerprints.

It had no doubts or no cruelty, it gets him through and it doesn’t hurt anyone, and so he will remain in that private cycle.

Somewhere in the rising ranks, he had requested for a task force with constant asks about updates, where the training just felt too repetitive and non-active, he can’t stop moving, or thoughts would override. A task force to have a single goal, to go after _Kingfish_.

It won’t erase the smoke in the skies that had risen up during times of war, filling it. It won’t erase the distorted imageries of broken bridges and struggling breaths.

But it’ll make sure that the truth is out.

Slow, fast, moderate. He doesn’t stop moving, and he won’t.

He recovered, they didn’t.

Nightmares lessened, but not gone, as insomnia was a good friend to people like him. The visits to the graves were as regular as the training schedule, a captain to an official force, a leader to lead.

Somebody has to light those lanterns, if god wasn’t kind to him, he should be kind to them at least.

It takes one to know one; Insomnia was a good friend for the duo. Sleepless nights with exchange of words and memories with the unmasked lieutenant, who had similar fingers gripping at him but dismissing them like they were a part of him.

As they were a part of him too.

Three people close to him died that day, he found one of them alive—only to lose him again.

Whether it be the path simply destined to him this way, or a punishment for disregarding god in rebellion at the unanswered prayers, or the attempt to intervene with a scream and a reached out bloodied arm and eye.

In both cases, it was still a very _fucked up_ sick game he was being played in.

Every glance at his face on a reflective surface after taking off the bandages, he saw the reflection of a marked failure shaped in a scar, an unnerving line striking on the left eye.

Until he catches the psychopath himself to hang from a tree, it won’t fade in like the others.

Papers torn in frustrations, shaky hands barely holding an item steadily, the lighter showing its age after too many flicks without refuel.

It doesn’t work in this.

Therapy was suggested, and as it was optional, he chose not to. Only said at the _assumption_ of needing it after the failed operation, not at the years long of normalised exhaustion of nights, staring at nothing until the sun rises.

The moon saw many of those sad blank ice eyes, red as they were unblinking, a sign of weakness that he kept hidden out of shame.

Captain first and foremost before a friend, comrade or enemy, no need for incapability.

No need for that; even if his lieutenant differed strongly.

They differed in aspects, including where he was betrayed by the teachings of whom he thought watched above, described with the traits of compassion and humanity after all these years when it was proven opposite.

He recovered, they should know.

Things change, maybe for the best, maybe for the worst.

Maybe it simply _changes_.

It’s what he went through after all, changes that he could not deny; but accepted on how it defined him now and accommodated to it. How it defined him as the captain who tried to be like his own captain whom he held high regards of.

High regards that were unmoving even if said captain was in his worst of state. Shaking, hostile, unstable, unsafe.

Personal belongings were allowed to people like them, to remind them of their humanity, to keep them sane. Some had ones that mixed in with the job.

Such as the pistol that returned to its rightful holster in the collapsing gulag.

An alteration was required; reaching beyond the middle of the leather notebook, new pack of cigars that was shared with its original owner, a new lighter with the emblem clearer than ever.

And something else.

Away from the celebrations and planning with the returned captain, he opened the zipper for his bag that was allowed to be brought. Pictures of close family and comrades alike, art supplements of pencils and pens, and finally.

His nana would have pinched his ear till it was bright red for the slight layer of dust that collected her rosary.

Wrapping it around his fingers—heavy in a lot of ways—had made him recall to its origins, where he once stood in the empty church during his mourning for the dying lanterns, the glasses singing out to him from memory even if he detested its maker.

With its owner who was the safety from his first two cruel shadows.

With a change of heart and mind, maybe after the chaos had calmed down; he wished he can visit it again, this time with a rusty prayer and an informal apology maybe.

What a shame it is, coughing up the blood that trickled down his lips yet didn’t feel wrong with the final silence of dust and sand, circling and enclosing.

The dreaded fingers that raced with him for five years simply laid by his shoulders as eyes started to close in the luring tiredness.

This time he’s next to his captain, rightfully close by.

He knows he won’t wake up if the ice eyes in the desert closed, and perhaps he didn’t _mind_ with that.

He recovered, he’s gonna be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Friendly reminder from your local transmasc to NOT run in a binder, that shit sucks.


End file.
